When I was a kid, I knew someone whose family was rich and had a full-time
maid, but never imagined I'd be in that situation myself. Now I lived in a mild
tropical climate, not far from the ocean, with both a maid and a guard, and
our friends seemed to take such services for granted.
It was wonderful. I didn't have to cook or wash dishes,
clean house, go grocery shopping, do laundry, iron or mend anything. Our clothes
were miraculously clean and hanging in our closet a couple days after we wore
them, the bed always made and house spotless. I could ensconce myself all day
in the study undisturbed. Our maid would quietly deliver my Earl Grey at ten
and my lunch at noon. I didn't have to clean up afterward or answer the telephone
or doorbell. By five, our small house would be spotless and, if we had asked
for dinner, it would be waiting in the kitchen.
We were hardly rich by American standards. We could
afford such service because of the vast discrepancy in wealth between America
and Senegal. The twenty dollars I slipped the porter at the airport was equivalent
to a week's income for the average worker. We were glad to pay a little more
than that each week for wonderful maid service, and our maid was an honest,
diligent and happy employee. Unlike some other employers, especially other Senegalese,
we gave her weekends and evenings off, paid her on time and let her come and
go pretty much as she pleased.
Our guard opened and closed the gate and garage door
for us and kept the car clean, but his main function was deterring thieves.
When we first drove past the Presidential Palace downtown, I noticed that it
didn't have any bars on its big windows, one of the few buildings in town that
didn't. Instead, it had a tall spiked fence and many official guards policing
the grounds. We only had one guard to keep out the thieves, though, so needed
bars on all the windows of our little house. The high wall around our small
yard was topped with broken glass. The bougainvillea facing the street bloomed
brightly in red and purple, and its tall, thickly intertwined branches served
as an effective barrier to trespassers. No one could open our cute little gate
without a key and our 24-hour guard's permission.
He lived in a corner of our yard, in a small building
which contained his room and two other small rooms--one for our little washing
machine and one with a shower and a hole in the floor, which served as a bathroom
for him and our maid.
As I learned to relax walking around town, in both
relatively well-off and incredibly poor neighborhoods, I wondered whether all
the walls, bars and precautions were really necessary--but then I did hear about
incidents of thievery, especially in certain areas of town or around certain
markets. Violent desperadoes seemed rare by American standards, but incidents
of petty thievery were much more common and precautions were necessary. Many
people had a different sense of property, and it wasn't a good idea to leave
anything laying around.
Thieves didn't usually assault their victims in Senegal,
so attentiveness was usually sufficient deterrence. Our neighborhood guards
were unarmed. If they caught a thief, they usually just ganged up and beat him
on the spot, as was the local custom. The police expected anyone bringing in
a prisoner to return regularly to feed him, and locals widely regarded that
as an unnecessary expense.
Squatters might build a little house somewhere without
worrying about land ownership. On the ocean cliffs not far from our house, they
had used branches and cardboard to build tiny makeshift homes, a few of which
could have fit into our modest living room. Some had magnificent ocean views,
although their shacks didn't do much to improve the view for other people jogging
by the cliffs or for the residents of the relatively substantial houses nearby.
On a walk down a dirt road, we saw a large community of tiny shacks made of
boards and whatever scrap materials people could find. We walked by women wearing
colorful African prints with babies on their backs, as they went about their
daily business, kids playing in the dirt. During our drives, I noticed many
crowded shantytowns, sometimes huge, scattered around town.
A Senegalese friend told me not to worry about the
poverty. "We've been living like this for centuries," he said, "and no one starves."
I wasn't fully convinced.
"Don't you see that the children play and laugh?"
Many of the kids did play and laugh, and I hadn't seen
any overt signs of starvation or severe malnutrition. On the whole, people were
notably skinnier than Americans, but that just helped me realize how many Americans
were overweight.
I wondered, however, about the pathetic children in
rags begging at the street corners. Boys would come over with their shaved heads
and empty tomato cans, saying "cadeau, cadeau." Where were their parents? These
kids seemed seriously neglected. As best I understood it, these "taalibe" kids
were not orphans, but "on loan" from their poor parents to local marabouts,
or Islamic priests. They studied in Koranic schools, learning to recite the
Koran in Arabic. They also "learned humility," begging in the streets for contributions
for the marabout and food for themselves, permitting dutiful Muslims to practice
daily charity. Some people would give the kids food, such as bread or sugar
cubes, instead of money. At meal times, the boys would knock on doors and beg
for their meals.
This situation bothered me. If I saw a neglected child
in the States, I would do something besides feed him and send him back out into
the streets, like a stray cat. Yet most people, both Senegalese and foreigners,
usually ignored these pathetic boys, who would come up to cars at a stoplight
or approach pedestrians, saying "cadeau, cadeau." People usually continued with
their conversations as though no one were there or just stared ahead, ignoring
them, if alone.
There were also other begging children, both girls
and boys, without the taalibe trademark tomato cans. Mothers set up housekeeping
on street corners, sending their young to the cars. I noticed one woman sweeping
the sidewalk nicely, as though it were her yard, replete with mats and accouterments
which she set up daily. At other intersections, adult beggars with major deformities
limped over to cars or crawled around on their hands. Ignoring them seemed to
be the standard response, although I did begin to notice that somebody on occasion
would give them something.
There were also the energetic street peddlers who were
not begging, but selling various products--watches ("genuine Rolex" or "gold
plated"), sunglasses, shirts and pants (which looked like pajamas), tablecloths,
music tapes and similar items. If we walked around the crowded markets, they
held their products in front of us, reframing their sales pitches in different
ways, trying to get us to buy. "Good price, mister. How much you pay?" We would
just ignore them, as though they weren't there, and I learned that, if we ignored
them studiously enough, they usually went away.
One day, we drove with a couple friends to a tourist
attraction north of town--Le Lac Rose, a lake which appeared pink due to its
high salt content. Featured on postcards, it was famous as the end point of
the annual Paris-Dakar Rally. The country was so undeveloped, however, that
there were no street signs or other guidance directing us how to get there.
Our friends, however, knew the way.
The roads were often narrow, crumbly and worn at the
edges, so when two cars approached at least one had to drive off in the dirt.
The further we drove, the worse the road got. We passed kids pretending to fix
huge potholes, using sticks to fill the holes with sand and branches. They shouted,
asking for money for their road work. I learned that the standard answer was
"demain," as the Senegalese consider a direct "no" rude. It seemed a lot of
things were going to be done "tomorrow" in this country. In some places, the
pavement was so crumbling and potholed that nobody could drive on it.
When we got to a rural village, the pavement ended
abruptly, but that didn't deter us, as we keep on driving, winding past thatch
huts and small brick buildings, pretty bougainvillea blooming in the background.
Some kids waved, as we seemed to drive through their back yards, or front yards
sometimes, sheep wandering out in the "road" in front of the car, sand everywhere.
We waved back. Women walked by with their loads balanced on their heads, paying
us little heed. These trips constituted sensory overload for me. I could hardly
believe my eyes, so many people living like this.
When we made it past the village to the lake, we parked
the car and got out. As the four of us strolled along the lake and talked, a
local man approached and offered to be our guide. We declined his services,
but he persisted anyway, following us around and talking for the next ten to
fifteen minutes. I found his persistence fascinating and our lack of further
response embarrassing, especially when he started speaking in different languages,
apparently checking to see if we were ignoring him just because we didn't understand.
I saw no indication that he was irritated with us. I broke the rules, nodding
when he asked in English if we spoke English, figuring that he couldn't misconstrue
that as an act of hiring him. He was friendly the whole time, and nobody but
me seemed to find the interaction terribly odd.
The lake was really purple. We walked along the shore,
watching a few local people in the water harvesting the salt and loading it
onto skiffs. Men floated their loads toward shore, and women then carried full
baskets on their heads, dumping the salt in tall piles for drying on the beach.
We lost our would-be guide when we drove a little way
and walked over the dunes to within sight of the ocean. The scenic beach area
looked as though it would be good for long walks, but it was undeveloped and
we figured it was too far away over the loose sand. A special vehicle, designed
for the sand, came rumbling past us, transporting some tourists who, incredibly,
had arrived by bus. There was a little outdoor bar back near the lake with no
customers, so we enjoyed some soft drinks before heading home.
My friends were amused when I told them of my dismay
at our behavior. How could we ignore that pleasant man for so long, as he followed
us around and talked with us--or at us, anyway? He was not threatening, and
I felt very uncomfortable with my own evasiveness. It seemed rude to ignore
him, as well as all the peddlers and beggars--young and old, in town.
I wanted to find another way to communicate no, without
acting as though these people didn't exist. The problem was, if I said "no,
not interested" or "no cadeau," they took that as encouragement and tried a
different or more earnest begging or sales pitch. Saying "bonjour" to the begging
children only increased their pitiful behavior. My nodding to our guide probably
encouraged him. Even looking at people, returning a glance, had this result.
So I myself had started to ignore human beings who were talking to me and to
act as though they didn't exist. In the local way, that was how one declined
to participate in the proposed interaction, communicating lack of interest without
much effort.
Only for me it took effort, and I wasn't very good
at it. I didn't want to be good at it, as the silent treatment seemed disrespectful.
I began to wonder more about the beggars, young and old, and peddlers and guides.
Was this what it meant to "learn humility?" I wouldn't ordinarily continue talking
to someone who was deliberately ignoring me, and I began to marvel at the powers
of those who did. How did they see us? How did they remain so calm and persistent?
When I told my friends that I didn't think I would
be going along with this practice of ignoring people anymore, they wished me
luck. I guessed that they had had similar reactions once. I wanted to look directly
at people and be courteous, acknowledging their existence, while conveying in
a friendly way that I wasn't going to buy anything, if I wasn't, or give any
"cadeau." I felt an obligation, not to buy their goods or services or to give
them money, but to acknowledge their human presence.
Would people respond with some semblance of a recognition
that, on a basic level, we were on a par, as independent equals? Would people
look me in the eye and level with me, considering my wishes as well as their
own?
Learning about this new culture was important, but
I had no intention of just blending in or playing an expected European or foreigner
"patron" role.
One day shortly after these musings, Jan and I went
shopping at "the mall," as I called a crowded downtown market, full of little
shops, sidewalk stands, peddlers and hustlers. As we headed home, a young man
wearing a long flowing bou-bou came alongside our car on the passenger side,
giving me a nice opportunity to begin practicing my new approach. We were stuck
in slowly moving traffic, and he was selling copies of the Koran. As our car
inched forward and he addressed me, I broke ranks, looked directly at him and
said a friendly "bonjour," acknowledging his existence and accomplishing the
first part of my objective. I was pleased with myself. He showed me a book,
quoting his price. So far, so good, I thought. Unfortunately, though, the book
was in Arabic. I considered his product, looking through it, thinking it wouldn't
hurt to read the Koran sometime, but I didn't know how to decipher any Arabic
and so this book was useless to me. I said "no, merci," handing it back to him,
and wondered aloud how I say, in French, "I don't buy." The guy's answer, however,
was to lower his price. I asked, "Anglais, Anglais?" He understood, but shook
his head--all his books were in Arabic, so I shrugged, looking at him about
the obvious problem. In response, he lowered his price again! Clearly, I was
not getting my point across. When I responded with a direct "no," shaking my
head and motioning my hands with finality by the open window, hoping that would
be the end of it, he reached into the car and put the book on my lap, giving
me a still lower price! Somehow he communicated to me that this was his last
price, although I doubted it. When I tried to hand it back, the car creeping
along a little faster, he refused to take it. Running along in spurts now, he
still tried to get me to buy it. It was only when traffic cleared up and we
started to pull away that he indicated that he would take it back. We stopped
the car, and he ran up.
I had failed. True, I had acknowledged his existence,
in keeping with my new policy, but in every other regard it had been a bad experience.
He took everything I did, even saying "hello" or "no, thank you" or conveying
that I couldn't read Arabic, as a negotiating ploy and kept pestering me! Obviously,
I needed far greater skills and a wider repertoire if I was going to "acknowledge
people's existence" in Dakar.
I was glad, however, that I had started down this road
and found something interesting to do in my spare time. It also made for interesting
conversations with friends who monitored my progress.
Introduction
1. First Bribe
2. You Decide
3. Acknowledging Others
4. Passing Grade <
Next
5. Two Foreign Cultures
6. How Do You Say "Help"
in Arabic?
7. Risks in the Developing World
8. Un, Deux, Trois
9. Hello But No Cadeau
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